Rat Patrol: The Honor Thy Son Raid
by Syl
Summary: In the background of war, the members of the Rat Patrol send and receive letters. Third in a series. Please R&R.:


**Summary**: In the background of war, the members of the Rat Patrol send and receive letters. Third in a series.

**Author's Note: **Loosely based on "The Dare-Devil Raid." After much reflection, I've opted to name Jack's father, Professor John Moffitt and refer to him a Prof. Moffitt in exposition throughout the storyAnd once again, thanks go out to Sue for beta-reading.

**Disclaimer**: _The Rat Patrol _and all related characters belong to Mirisch-Rich Productions, Tom Gries Productions, and United Artists Television; this is an original story that doesn't intend to infringe on their copyright. Constructive feedback--the positive and negative kind--is welcome and encouraged.

Copyright**: May 2006**

* * *

The Honor Thy Son Raid

By Syl Francis

Professor John Moffitt hurried across the tarmac to the waiting single engine Piper Scout plane. A veteran of many desert excavations, he was dressed in sensible lightweight khakis and carried a briefcase along with a small carryall. His stay in the desert would hopefully be a short one, in and out, basically. He was to lead his contacts to where he believed an ancient Roman road was located, and then call for a pickup and fly back to Cairo.

The pilot, an American who introduced himself as Lieutenant Brody, greeted him with a handshake and led him to the passenger side. Brody handed Prof. Moffitt a headset and showed him how to operate it. After ensuring that his passenger was safely strapped in, he secured the passenger-side door and hurried round to the pilot's side.

Brody gave Prof. Moffitt a thumb's up and started taxiing down the runway. After they were airborne, Prof. Moffitt allowed his thoughts to wander to his son...

When he had spoken to his friend in the War Office--Brigadier General Charles Winthrop, to be precise--about the possible existence of a two thousand year old Roman road that might serve as supply route for the Allied Forces, he had not really expected them to show any interest. As a respected archeologist who was well acquainted with the North African desert, Prof. Moffitt felt it his duty to at least inform his government of the possibility of the road's existence and of its potential usefulness to the war effort.

No one was more surprised than he that he was now on a plane, heading toward a secret rendezvous with an armed escort that would hopefully help him locate the ancient road. He had been reassured that one of the men that was to meet him was also somewhat of a desert expert. When he had been informed of this, he had realized for the first time just how seriously the War Office had taken his suggestion. Unashamedly, it gave him a sense of pride, and he dove into planning his trip, marking the three most likely areas where the Romans might have built the road.

If everything went as planned, his whole stay in the desert would last less than forty-eight hours. When his preparations had been finalized and approved, he had packed his bags, kissed his wife Elizabeth goodbye, and instructed his younger son Ian to take care of his mother in his absence. He reported to Winthrop in the War Office for his final instructions and itinerary, and that was when he had been given the name of the desert expert with whom he would work--Sgt. John Moffitt, Jr., PhD, His Majesty's Scots Greys, on current detached duty with the Long Range Desert Patrol.

Prof. Moffitt had stared speechlessly at Winthrop, who wore a very pleased grin at having surprised his friend. It was not often that he had an opportunity to put one over his old college chum.

"How is my favorite godson doing by the by?" Winthrop asked. He reached for his pipe and began tapping his preferred brand of tobacco into it.

"Fine," Prof. Moffitt said. "All his letters say so."

Making a show of lighting his pipe to collect his thoughts, Winthrop gave his friend a knowing look. "Doesn't say much, does he?"

Prof. Moffitt shook his head sadly. "No, not much."

"Well…there are the censors to consider," Winthrop said, calmly taking a few puffs. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but changed his mind. There was little either man could add to the topic, so they got down to business.

Prof. Moffitt outlined his plan, and Winthrop handed him his itinerary.

"Any questions, John?" Winthrop asked.

"No, Charles…I believe everything is in order." He glanced over his travel schedule. "It looks like your people did a thorough job."

"We aim to please," Winthrop said. "Don't be surprised if one of our more enthusiastic ratings included your tea times and lavatory breaks."

Prof. Moffitt grinned, glad of the attempt at lightheartedness. "Well, I'd best be heading out," he said. "I wouldn't want to miss my first lavatory break." The men stood and shook hands. Prof. Moffitt started for the door.

"Oh, and John--" Winthrop called.

Prof. Moffitt turned, expectantly.

"Remind Jack for me that I still have his commissioning papers in my desk. Anytime he wants them, all he has to do is give the word."

Prof. Moffitt nodded. "I'll do that, Charles..."

Returning to the present, Prof. Moffitt felt a sudden chill at the prospect of seeing Jack again under these circumstances. It was not a situation that he would have knowingly arranged. In fact, it was not even an occurrence that he wanted and had considered canceling the entire project back at Winthrop's office. To be reunited with Jack after two years, especially since their parting had been somewhat strained, was not something to which he looked forward.

Of course, intellectually he knew that his feelings were not Jack's fault. His son had performed his duty as he saw fit--just as he, himself, was doing now. However, Jack's enlistment in the ranks had disappointed both Prof. Moffitt and Jack's mother. This was their problem, not Jack's. From the boy's letters home, he seemed happy with his assignment and the men with whom he worked.

In fact, Jack's letters tended to be so sunny and full of happy news and humorous anecdotes, that Prof. Moffitt half-expected to step onto a stage production of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, where the hero always triumphed, the antagonist always got his just desserts, and all went home with a smile on their lips and a song in their hearts.

Hardly what the newspaper headlines reported each day, nor what the newsreels showed on a regular basis.

He thought of one of his son's last letters--dated sometime in March. Jack had pointedly downplayed a stay in Hospital and a stint as a prisoner of war. Reading between the lines, Prof. Moffitt realized that Jack had had a rough time of it and was doing his best to downplay the situation in order to avoid worrying his parents.

At least, he hoped that was Jack's intention. The only other possible reason had caused Prof. Moffitt many a sleepless night. Looking out the plane's small windscreen at the undulating sand dunes below, Prof. Moffitt admitted that perhaps Jack had not told him the complete truth because he did not wish to give his father any more ammunition with which to argue against his enlistment in the ranks. He thought of Winthrop's offer regarding Jack's commissioning and his own eagerness to see his son accept it.

Prof. Moffitt sighed in shame and guilt. Still, the idea that Jack's many talents and brilliant mind were being wasted, while traipsing across the desert on one endless search and destroy mission after another, was enough to gall the otherwise imperturbable scholar. He knew his feelings were wrong, that they were causing this terrible rift between him and his son. He had stayed awake many a night, pacing in his study, trying to work through his inner turmoil.

Just when he believed he could see things Jack's way, a niggling doubt would set him back to his original stance. No matter how hard he tried to understand, Prof. Moffitt knew in his heart's heart that Jack belonged somewhere in Supreme Allied Headquarters as a commissioned officer. His son should be planning and developing the standard operating procedures for desert warfare, not being little better than cannon fodder and perhaps ending up dead in the middle of nowhere.

That more than anything else was what Prof. Moffitt feared the most: To lose his highly gifted son in a senseless battle with a German convoy in order to deny the enemy petrol or worse--beans. He shook his head, attempting to cast off his dark thoughts.

As he looked out the plane's window, taking in the ever-changing desert landscape, he recalled the many days and nights he and Jack had spent together down there. They had been so close back then, almost extensions of one another. But now…? To describe their break as a chasm would be an exaggeration; yet, Prof. Moffitt worried that if he allowed it to continue, he would never be able to bridge it again.

He finally admitted to himself that he was afraid. Not of being killed or captured, but of facing Jack once more. Recalling the look of hurt and stubborn determination on Jack's face following his announcement that he had enlisted, and his parents' subsequent disappointment and insistence that he finish his OTC training and take the commission that he had earned, Prof. Moffitt felt only shame.

To send one's son into harm's way without a father's blessing was considered one of the worst punishments of the Old Testament. He thought of the story of Esau and Jacob, and of how each sought their father Issac's blessing. How could he have let Jack leave without first clearing the air between them? What kind of a father was he--? His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by anti-aircraft fire.

"Hold on!" Brody yelled and began performing a series of impressive aerobatics in an attempt to dodge the enemy flak.

The ack-ack increased and within seconds found its target. Abruptly, the plane's engine sputtered and then died altogether. Prof. Moffitt saw that the starboard wing had caught fire, and they were suddenly going down. They were trailing a black oily plume, indicating that the engine had also been hit. He thought of Jack being down there somewhere, possibly watching, and felt sick. He prayed for a miracle, a second chance to set things straight with his son.

"I can't hold her!" the pilot shouted, struggling uselessly with the controls. "Brace for a rough landing, Professor! The fire's spreading! As soon as we're down, you've got to try to save yourself. Understood?"

Prof. Moffitt nodded mutely. He had eyes only for the rapidly approaching ground. Would they make it? It didn't seem possible. At the last minute, Brody succeeded in lifting the plane's nose just enough to bring her in. Unexpectedly, the plane struck an outcropping and flipped nose to tail. It came to a final back-jolting stop, miraculously cabin side up. Prof. Moffitt quickly checked Brody's pulse, saw that he was dead, and proceeded to extricate himself from what was hurriedly turning into a burning coffin.

Within what seemed an eternity but must have been a mere eyeblink, he succeeded in shoving the passenger side door open and stumbling out. Somehow he managed to half-crawl and half-stagger as far from the plane as he could, when an invisible force smote him a powerful blow as the plane exploded. The fire had reached the plane's fuel tanks.

Prof. Moffitt lay, dazed, for a moment longer, until at last he managed to sit up and take his bearings. It was the hottest part of the day. He would have to seek shade at least until the sun went down before he tried anything. Slowly getting to his knees, he was taken by surprise yet again.

Gunshots, instantly followed by the telltale miniature volcanic eruptions of bullets striking less than a foot away from him, warned him of a greater danger than the sun. Swallowing, the professor held his hands up and stood. Turning slowly, he finally spotted the new threat. There were two Arabs coming toward him, riding on a single horse. The one in front held a rifle aimed directly at him.

Taking several calming breaths, Prof. Moffitt waited for their next move. The men came up to him and indicated that he should put his hands behind his back. Prof. Moffitt recognized their tribe markings and spoke to them in their own dialect, trying to explain the situation and the importance of meeting up with his contacts.

"Effendi, I am here on a mission of such importance that Allah himself has giving his blessing." That much was somewhat true. He had contacted the local Arab chieftain, an old friend of his, and informed him of what he would be doing and asked the chieftain's permission to excavate. The chieftain, who hated the German occupiers, had given his blessing.

Prof. Moffitt carried the chieftain's letter of safe passage in his breast pocket. He pulled out the document and informed his two captors of its contents; however, the Arab with the rifle struck him in the solar plexus with the rifle butt. Prof. Moffitt went down, bent over double. His numbed fingers dropped the letter and before long it was picked up by a breeze to be lost in the great sand sea.

"Silence, Infidel!" the Arab shouted. "No nonbeliever's lips are fit to say the name of the Great God Allah!"

The second man, on the other hand, appeared suddenly nervous. "Barakah," he said, "perhaps, we should check with the local chieftain, as he suggests."

Barakah would not hear of it. "No, Isam! We will take the Infidel to the German officer in town. He is known to pay in gold for any English or American."

Isam looked at Barakah, and then at the Englishman. He knew that the local chieftain would not rest until he discovered those who had sold one to whom he had granted safe passage. Knowing that he was probably dead either way, Isam leapt on Barakah's back in an attempt to take him by surprise. The attack worked for short while, but Barakah, being the larger and stronger of the two soon overpowered him.

Isam pleaded for his life but to no avail. Barakah shot him through the heart without so much as a hint of remorse. He turned to Prof. Moffitt. "Now there will be more gold for me." With that he finished binding the Englishman hand and foot, ignoring the man's protestations. Barakah walked the horse to where Prof. Moffitt lay helplessly, and he picked him up like a sack of potatoes, throwing him over the saddle. He then mounted behind him and started them in the direction of the nearby Arab village.

As Barakah had promised, the local officer in charge paid him with a small purse filled with gold coins. The Arab went away happy.

Meanwhile, Prof. Moffitt wondered at his sudden run of ill luck. If ever a man had jumped from the frying pan into one fire after another, it was he. The German officer made no attempt to interrogate his new acquisition; instead, he informed his guest that in the morning he would be transported to the 21st Panzer Division Headquarters.

"See here, Herr Leutnant, you have no right to hold me," Prof. Moffitt said. "I am a British citizen…a civilian, here on nonmilitary matters. According to the Geneva Convention--"

"According to the Geneva Convention, Herr Doctor Professor, citizens from enemy countries may be detained until it has been ascertained that they are indeed noncombatants, and not, as I am inclined to believe, enemy agents."

"An enemy agent? **_I_**?" Prof. Moffitt spluttered. "Don't be ridiculous! Good God, man! I'm a professor of antiquities at Cambridge University. Why, the very idea that I could be some sort of spy is utter nonsense."

"Be that as it may, Herr Doctor Professor, but your name is quite well-known. It would be simple for the British government to attempt to disguise your intended clandestine operation out in the open, so to speak. Do not worry. If your intentions are on the 'up and up' as the Americans would say, then you have nothing to worry about." Grinning, the lieutenant had two of his men escort the prized prisoner to his cell.

Prof. Moffitt whiled away the afternoon searching for any weak spots in his cell but finding none. As the day waned, the cell grew noticeably cooler, and he shivered. He looked around for a blanket to help fend off the chill, but did not see one and resigned himself to a long, cold night. A sense of hopelessness suddenly washed over him. No one knew he was here. If anyone discovered the burnt hulk of the plane, they would assume that it had gone down with no survivors.

If Jack were one of the ones who found the plane, he would assume that he was now fatherless. The thought made Prof. Moffitt feel intensely sad for his son. He sat down on the lone cot, the sole piece of furniture in the cell, and brooded. He was out of options.

Hearing the door lock being turned, he was suddenly galvanized to action. Jumping to his feet, he took a position that would place him behind the door when it opened. As it swung toward him, he slammed it shut and jumped the guard who had come in with his meal. He grabbed the guard by the throat in a chokehold, and without hesitation began to squeeze, intending to strangle the life out of the man.

"You should really try the steak and kidney-pudding," the "guard" half-croaked.

Feeling his knees give way, Prof. Moffitt instantly released his intended victim and fell back to the wall, leaning on it for support. At last he faced his son who was rubbing his neck, an ironic expression on his face.

"You should've spoken sooner," the father gently chided the son.

"I'll try to remember next time."

The father-son reunion was cut short. The real guard outside was banging on the door, demanding to know what was going on inside. Before Prof. Moffitt could say anything, Jack was already indicating that he wanted him to stand aside while he, himself, took up a position next to the door. When it opened, the professor watched as his son quickly dispatched the guard with a well-aimed chop to the back of the neck.

The next thing he knew, Prof. Moffitt was following Jack in what was strangely a role-reversal. Rather than he playing the part of the leader and protector, he now found himself as the one needing protecting and saving. He followed his son without protest. Jack obviously knew what he was doing, and Prof. Moffitt was nothing if not a man who respected experts in their chosen fields. At last they came to a corner. Before them stood a parked truck, inviting them for a ride.

"What do we do now?" he asked.

"Climb inside those barrels," his son replied coolly. "Ride out."

"What's in them?"

"Rubbish I would imagine. They'll have to move the truck sometime soon." Jack paused and looked at him, a single eyebrow quirked. "You're not worried are you?"

"Who me, worry?" Prof. Moffitt scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous." But inside, his stomach was jumping nervously, making him glad that he had not eaten the food that Jack had brought him. Jack led them to the truck, and they climbed into separate rubbish barrels. The next moment, Prof. Moffitt heard cries in German exclaiming that the English prisoner had escaped. Before long, he heard the sound he most feared, the driver shouting his discovery of an intruder. Jack had been found.

Jumping out of his own container to save his son, Prof. Moffitt was met by the surprising sight of an unconscious German already lying on the bed of the truck, and Jack hurling the lids of the rubbish bins with a mere flick of the wrist, as if throwing a discus without a windup. He was taking on any and all enemy soldiers who dared advance toward the truck. Prof. Moffitt watched open-mouthed as, one by one, the soldiers went down without a sound.

He saw that Jack was quickly running out of lids--his ammo so to speak. About to warn Jack of the dire situation, he realized his son was already climbing out of the barrel and jumping off the truck. Prof. Moffitt had no choice but to follow in his son's wake. As he did, Prof. Moffitt heard the chilling sound of a very large machinegun opening up on the street.

"That's it then," he muttered. "We're done for." However, to his utter surprise, Jack easily vaulted onto the back of a machinegun-mounted jeep and waved him to climb into the passenger seat. A second such jeep gave them covering fire, as they careened out of town.

After putting a safe distance between them and the town, a soldier in the second jeep, wearing an Australian bush hat, waved them to stop. Prof. Moffitt caught a look pass between his son and their driver. The driver shrugged. Jack rolled his eyes and smiled.

Jack climbed out and waited for the other man to walk up to him. Giving Prof. Moffitt a polite nod, he pulled Jack a distance away, and they talked at length. The driver introduced himself as Tully and the second driver as Hitch. They exchanged a neutral look as they watched Jack and the other soldier, whom Tully identified as the patrol leader, Sergeant Troy, hold some kind of impromptu conference.

Every now and then Troy made a sharp gesture to which Jack simply nodded. Neither Tully nor Hitch offered an explanation, but Prof. Moffitt had the impression that they were both worried.

At long last Jack and Troy walked back toward them. Neither man gave any hint as to what had transpired between them, but Prof. Moffitt had the sinking feeling that his son had just received a major chewing out. Nevertheless, Jack walked up to him and proudly laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Gentlemen--Troy, Tully, Hitch--I'd like to introduce you to my father, Professor John Moffitt. Father, these three disreputable men standing before you are my closest friends and colleagues." He then proceeded to introduce him to each of the men. When he came to Troy, he made it a point to introduce him as the patrol leader. "And the one in the rakish Australian hat is our fearless leader, Sergeant Sam Troy. A man of great courage, infinite patience, and deep understanding…wouldn't you say so, Tully, Hitch?" He gave the other two a knowing grin, which they returned in kind.

"Oh, yeah, Sarge," Tully replied. "Sergeant Troy is a real patient kind of guy."

"Uh-huh…real understanding, too," Hitch added.

Prof. Moffitt, knowing that his leg was being pulled somehow, glanced over at Troy, who was having difficulty keeping a straight face. Finally, the patrol leader broke into a wide grin, and rolling his eyes, called out, "Come on…let's **_shake_** it!"

Two hours later they arrived at the first possible location that Prof. Moffitt had marked on his map. After walking the ground, accompanied by his son, Prof. Moffitt at last shook his head.

"No, gentleman…this is no good. The sand is much too soft along here, and--"

"I agree, Father," Jack said, studying the area critically. "I scouted this area a few months back for a possible alternative route for the Patrol. It's too soft in some places and too narrow in others. I can't see the Romans selecting it to build a road."

"How do you know?" Troy asked. "I mean…it's been a coupla thousand years, hasn't it?"

"Yeah, Sarge," Tully answered, "but--" He stopped glancing at Jack, who nodded encouragement. "The face of the ground might change because of the winds and sand, but the actual geology of the area doesn't change." He looked at Jack who was smiling. "Am I right, Sarge?"

"Good show, Tully!" Prof. Moffitt exclaimed. "Jack told me you were interested in archeology. I see that interest extends to other areas, as well. You are correct…the general geology doesn't change. If the area is too soft to be used as an alternative route today, then the Romans probably found it to be unacceptable for a road two thousand years ago, as well."

"So…what now?" Hitch asked.

"It's too late to make it to the second site before dark, I'm afraid," Jack said. "It's at least six hours away." He reached under his seat and pulled his map case out from under it. Spreading his map out on the jeep's hood, he studied it for a minute. The others gathered round. "Look here…" he said. "There's a small oasis located here…" He pointed at a penciled-in circle with an "X" in the center. "It's about three hours away, and as you can see, lies directly between our current location and the next site. Why don't we set up camp there for the night?"

"I don't have an oasis marked on my map," Prof. Moffitt protested. He held his map out for Jack to see.

Jack gave him a small smile. "Remember that scouting mission I mentioned earlier? I found it then and marked it."

"Oh." Prof. Moffitt nodded. There did not seem much more to say. However, it was taking some adjustment on his part to get used to his son being the desert expert and he the student.

"Okay, then…let's move out," Troy ordered.

Three hours later they had reached the oasis. It was not much, but it had water, which was the important thing. As the Patrol set up camp with little or no words exchanged between them, Prof. Moffitt took the time to watch and observe. Jack and Troy appeared to be on equal footing with each other. And although Jack was the Patrol's desert expert, Troy was in charge. Prof. Moffitt tried to find some sign of resentment on his son's part, but could see none. In fact, Jack seemed totally at ease with offering suggestions and acquiescing to Troy's acceptance or rejection of his ideas.

This also went for the junior members of the Patrol. The two sergeants listened respectfully to the two soldiers' observations and accepted or rejected them based on their merit, not the soldier's rank. What's more the two soldiers seemed to look up to both sergeants with equal respect. If Tully appeared closer to Jack and Hitch closer to Troy, it was understandable as they were teammates. He could see that each member brought a unique and important perspective to the group; however, as a unit they moved and acted as one.

The men left Prof. Moffitt feeling suitably impressed.

When the camp was set up for the night, Troy assigned the guard rotation: Tully first watch, Hitch next, Jack third, and Troy last. Feeling uneasy that he was not pulling his own weight, Prof. Moffitt volunteered to also serve a watch.

"As Jack can attest, I've pulled my share of late night watches on many an archeological dig," he said. "I think that I'm quite capable of standing at least one watch tonight." The others smiled.

Troy looked at Jack, who simply lifted an eyebrow and stood back. Seeing there was no help from that quarter, Troy gave him a wry look. Turning to Prof. Moffitt, he spoke a bit awkwardly. "Uh…thanks all the same, Professor, but we pretty much have it all under control. We're used to working together, and well…" He shrugged. "Thanks all the same," he repeated lamely.

"But--"

"Sir," Jack interrupted, "this isn't an archeological dig. Anyone who approaches our camp in the dark of night won't be interested in stealing artifacts. They'll be more inclined to want to kill us. We've been tasked to protect you, and you've been tasked to find this road. Now, you've had a rough day of it, Father. In the interest of all of us succeeding in our respective missions, let us protect you tonight, while you get enough rest to find that road tomorrow."

Jack's familiar smile took the sting out of his carefully chosen words. However, Prof. Moffitt heard the underlying message. In order that his silly vision of finding a Roman road to help the war effort was put into effect, the lives of real men--to include that of his own son--were being placed in danger. He was beginning to wonder if his idea was worth the potential cost.

"Very well, Jack," he said. "You're right, of course."

The disturbing thought that he was responsible for possibly placing the lives of the Patrol in jeopardy haunted Prof. Moffitt. Unable to sleep, he threw back his blanket and sat up. Scanning the night sky, he estimated that it was still before midnight. Sighing, he was about to lie back down when he spotted a dark silhouette a few yards out on the perimeter of the camp. It was moving at a slow, deliberate pace, sticking close to the shadows and pausing on occasion as if to listen.

Recalling Jack's words about the intention of any late night visitors, Prof. Moffitt felt a momentary chill shoot down his spine. The next instant common sense prevailed, and he surmised that it was probably the man on watch. Knowing that sleep was beyond him at the moment, he got up and made his way in the direction that he had last seen the shadow.

Mindful of the unevenness of the ground and any number of possible places where an ankle could be easily turned, Prof. Moffitt picked his way carefully in the dark. The next instant he was held firmly in a chokehold. He was struggling for air, his fists futilely pounding the iron sinews that were crushing his larynx. At the touch of cold steel on his forehead, he ceased his useless struggle.

Just as unexpectedly as the attack had started, it was over. The chokehold was released, and he dropped to the ground. Grabbing his neck, Prof. Moffitt found that he could breathe again. Gasping and coughing, he wheezed as he gulped in sweet, fresh oxygen into his starving lungs. His body shuddered as it re-familiarized itself with the simple act of breathing. At last, he spotted a pair of boots before him. His eyes traveled up the dark form standing in front of him. He made out a sub-machine gun held with a casual ease that seemed even more dangerous.

At last, he looked into the cold eyes of a killer. Tully.

"You know…that's a good way of getting yourself killed." Tully spoke with bleak matter-of-factness. Gone was the friendly, open smile of his son's friend.

Prof. Moffitt nodded. "I'm sorry. I didn't think."

After a long second, Tully at last nodded and offered him a hand up. Prof. Moffitt was half-expecting a lecture on field discipline, but Tully said nothing more on the matter. Instead, he started again on his interrupted rounds. Not wanting to return to his bedroll, Prof. Moffitt followed in his wake, unable to mirror the desert warrior's fluid movements. At last, after the elder Moffitt had kicked yet another rock, which seemed to ring out as loud as an avalanche in the desert stillness, Tully stopped. He turned and faced Prof. Moffitt, but still he did not speak.

Jack's father saw that Tully was not going to make this easy for him. Although the soldier's face was largely in shadow, he could almost read his expression from his stance.

_He knows what I want. He's just not going to help._

"I'm sorry to be such a nuisance, Tully," he began. "I couldn't sleep." When he did not say anything else, Tully nodded and started to return to his rounds, but Prof. Moffitt spoke hurriedly. "I couldn't sleep because of Jack."

Tully stopped and slowly turned. "What about the Sarge?"

Seeing that at last he had Tully's attention, Prof. Moffitt moved up close to him. "I want to know how he is?" He made this into a question. When Tully did not say anything, he explained, "What I mean is…**_how_** is he? I mean…is he all right? I mean…truly all right?"

Tully shrugged. "I reckon you'll have to ask **_him_**, Professor."

"Don't you think I haven't?" Prof. Moffitt snapped. "His letters are so full of humorous anecdotes and happy words that I'd swear the Allies and Germans are on extended cricket match."

"From what the Sarge tells me, those can get pretty hectic." Tully grinned slightly, a weak attempt to keep the conversation light.

However, Prof. Moffitt was not in a light mood. His eyes traveled up to the stars, a source of constancy throughout his life. "He won't talk to me, Tully…at least, not like he used to…not like before…"

"Look, Professor, this isn't my place, but--" Tully stopped unsure whether he should continue.

"Please…go on."

"Have you ever considered telling him that this all okay with you?" Tully asked.

Prof. Moffitt shook his head. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"

"Well, that his decision to do what he's doing here--to not become an officer--is okay with you?" Tully asked.

"He told you that I disapproved of his decision to enlist?"

Tully shrugged. "He did kind of mention it once in passing, but he clammed up real fast afterwards, almost as soon as he said it. He's never mentioned again, and I've never asked. Didn't think it was any of my business."

Prof. Moffitt nodded. "Yes…his mother and I were terribly disappointed by his choice." He shook his head. "I suppose that I haven't made matters any better by reminding him in my letters that a friend in the War Office is holding his commission ready. All Jack has to do is say the word." He looked at Tully, ashamed. "I'm afraid that I have not been a very good father to Jack."

"Are you proud of your son, Professor?"

"Of course, I'm proud of Jack. He **_knows_** that."

"Does he?" Tully asked. "Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure. What father wouldn't be proud of a son who followed in his footsteps? Who will most likely surpass him in his achievements?" Prof. Moffitt was in his element now: A father proudly counting off his son's achievements.

"Did you know that Jack was accepted into Cambridge at sixteen? One of the youngest applicants in over fifty years. He completed his undergraduate studies just shy of twenty and received his doctorate at twenty-four, just before the war broke out." He looked at Tully for a response and was satisfied with what he saw. "You know Jack speaks several contemporary languages and can read several ancient languages. Tully…Jack isn't just a talented scholar, he's **_exceptionally_** gifted. And his gifts are being wasted out here. Surely you can **_see_** that?"

Tully stared at Prof. Moffitt long and hard. When he spoke, it was not in answer to his question, but instead of home. "Almost every letter I get from my folks is full of stuff about home. Someone got married or had a baby; the crop's gonna be a good one this year…Just folksy news to give me a touch of home, y'know?" He paused, reminiscing about the latest news from home. Then, realizing that Prof. Moffitt was waiting for him to continue, he added, "But my Pa never closes a letter without first telling me he loves me and how proud he and my Mama are of me and what I'm doing here." He shrugged. "I know it's not much, Professor. And I know my folks aren't educated like you are, so maybe it sounds kind of silly to you. But it means a lot to me. Being out here and getting shot at…not knowing if I'll ever see them again…It helps to know that they think what I'm doing is worth the sacrifice."

Tully shouldered his weapon. It was time to return to his rounds. "I know the Sarge, Professor. I know how smart he is and how lucky we are to have him. I also know that he's not the kind of man who let's others do the fighting while he sits back on some general's staff and sticks pins on a map."

Prof. Moffitt was about to respond, but Tully held his hand up. "He talks a lot about you, Professor…even let me read your book and took the time to explain the parts I didn't understand. He's real good like that…he'll make a real good professor one day--just like you. He's says that's what he wants--to **_be_** like you. When he talks about you, it's easy to see how proud he is of you." Tully paused, holding Prof. Moffitt's eyes and continued. "Today, we watched as your plane went down. We investigated the wreck, but couldn't find any signs of you. Your son wanted to follow a hunch and go looking for you. Troy ordered him to stay with the Patrol. He disobeyed orders to go after you, Professor."

"I didn't know."

"I was ordered not to let him near the jeep, while Troy left on a brief scouting mission. This was supposed to keep him from pulling some hair-brained stunt like go off in search of you. Well, you could say that I obeyed the **_letter_** of the law. The Sarge never came near the jeep, so I didn't try to stop him when he took off after you. I don't have to have a doctorate to know that your son loves you--enough to disobey orders and face possible court martial in order to go looking for you." He paused and then plunged on. "My question is…do you love your son enough to accept him as he is and not as you want him to be? Do you love him enough to let him know that you're proud of him no matter what?"

"Yes…of course, I am."

Tully turned to go. "Well…I'm not the one you should be telling that to."

Prof. Moffitt stared after Tully long after he had disappeared into the deep shadows. Glancing up the stars he saw that they had moved slightly in their nightly pinwheel across the sky. "I will…I promise, Jack."

* * *

The group was packed and ready to go before dawn. Over a cold breakfast of something canned that identified itself as ham and eggs, Troy and Jack conferred on the possible routes to the next site, knowing that they would be crossing near an area known as "Ambush Alley." It had earned its name from the high number of Allied convoys that had been attacked along a six-mile radius. If Prof. Moffitt could find an alternative supply route that would circumvent the current one in use, then the mission would have been worth it.

"Unfortunately, Troy, the area along here--" Jack pointed to a ridge on the western flank of "Ambush Alley." "--is known for having quicksand traps, which is why the supply route avoids it."

"And the eastern flank is mostly impassable rock," Troy said. "Tell me something I **_don'_**t know."

"We could bypass the whole problem by going around here." Moffitt made a grand sweeping gesture that would take the Patrol several miles out of its way in the wrong direction.

"Jack, that's impossible!" Prof. Moffitt protested. "Why that route would take us **_days_** out of our way."

"Approximately three days, in fact," Jack said calmly.

"Prof. Moffitt, please don't take this wrong, Sir," Troy interrupted. "But I'm afraid that you don't have a say in the matter. Your job is find that Roman road; ours is to get you there in one piece, by the safest means possible."

"But--"

"I'm sorry, Sir, but that's just the way it is." Troy turned away, dismissing him. "Moffitt, I don't like it. Can you give me any other option?"

"Just the usual," Jack said with a shrug.

"The usual what?"

"The usual route through the 'Alley'…fraught with the usual danger and contingent of Jerries hell-bent on giving us an early sendoff."

"That's what I was afraid you'd say," Troy muttered.

"Do you have any better ideas?" Jack asked.

"No," Troy sighed. Waving the others over, Troy discussed their plan. "So, unless any of you have a better idea, we're going to plow right through the 'Alley.'"

"What if we run into Germans?" Prof. Moffitt asked.

The others exchanged glances, eventually all eyes landing on Jack. He sighed and then explained to his father. "It's not a question of **_if_** we run into Jerries, Father…only a matter of **_when_**."

"They don't call it 'Ambush Alley' for nothing," Tully muttered.

"I see…" Prof. Moffitt murmured. He was beginning to realize the extent of the danger that he had walked into by suggesting the whole endeavor. And if this was the type of danger he was experiencing, then what did the Patrol have to put up with on a regular basis?

As they headed south, the breaking dawn displayed a lovely palette of pinks and blues to their left. Day came suddenly in this part of the world, and almost before Prof. Moffitt realized it, the sun's warm rays were kissing him lightly on the cheek. The beauty of the desert morning was lost on him, however, as Jack's words rang in his mind: "…Not a question of **_if_**…a matter of **_when_**."

Three hours later proved to be the **_when_**. A three-vehicle armored column fell upon them just as Tully spotted them. He signaled Jack who was perched in the back, pointing out the telltale reflection of sunlight on an exposed windshield.

Jack nodded and immediately signaled the second jeep. Troy waved an acknowledgement and hastily climbed onto the back of his jeep. Jack leaned forward and tapped his father on the shoulder. He had to shout in order to be heard over the roar of the jeep's engine.

"Father, it might get a little hairy in a few short minutes. I'd appreciate it if you keep your head down and try not to fall out of the jeep. Things tend to happen very fast when we have a run-in with Jerry."

Prof. Moffitt swallowed back the sudden bile that threatened and managed to nod his understanding.

"Here they **_come_**!" Tully shouted.

At his words, Jack opened fire with the fifty-caliber machinegun. Prof. Moffitt immediately ducked as low as he could, grabbing onto anything that offered a handhold. The next instant, the jeep veered sharply to the right, the force of the turn throwing him to the left toward Tully. He managed somehow to keep from falling into the driver's lap.

"That's my contribution to the war effort today," he muttered wryly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other jeep cross in front of theirs in a deadly dance move. Troy's jeep went straight for the half-track. A long burst from his fifty-cal took out the half-track's waist gunner. A well-thrown grenade brought the lightly armored vehicle to an explosive halt.

Meanwhile, Jack and Tully were pursuing an armored staff car. Jack fired a long burst just as they were passing alongside, when his weapon jammed. Prof. Moffitt gasped as his son uttered a word that he knew would shock his mother. Tully gunned the engine and swerved away from the staff car, putting distance between them in order to give Jack time to clear his weapon. However, the Germans were not about to just sit still. Instead, they turned sharply in deadly pursuit.

Working hurriedly to clear the jam, Moffitt finally slammed his hand against the weapon in disgust. A sudden idea came to him. "Tully!" He tapped him on the helmet to gain his attention. "What do you say to a little game of chicken?"

Tully grinned. "Any time you're ready, Sarge!"

"Chicken? What are you talking about, Jack?"

"Don't worry, Professor," Tully shouted in reassuringly. "Just a little game I used play back home with the revenuers."

"Game? I don't understand! Jack, we don't have time for games!"

"Not worried, are you, Father?" Jack teased.

"Who me? Worry?" Prof. Moffitt responded weakly. _Not much_.

"Good! Now pass me the weapon there in the right sling." As he spoke, Jack took out three grenades from an ammo box and stuffed two in his shirt. He reached for the sub-machinegun as his father handed it to him. "Oh, and Father?"

"I know," Prof. Moffitt said, beating him to it. "Keep down."

Grinning, Jack nodded at Tully. "**_Now_**!"

Prof. Moffitt stared open-mouthed as Tully performed a 180-degree turn worthy of a Hollywood stunt. As the dust cleared, his eyes widened at what he saw: They were on a head-on collision course with the German staff car.

"What are you **_doing_**?" he screamed. He had the most embarrassed feeling that he had just sounded like a schoolgirl.

"Waiting for the other guy to blink," Tully said.

"Blink?" Despite the backwash from the speed they were traveling in, Prof. Moffitt felt the sweat break out on his forehead. It was practically falling in rivulets down his eyes and face. As the other vehicle approached them at the same high rate of speed, Prof. Moffitt felt another scream gaining momentum inside him. They were going to crash.

About to cover his eyes, Prof. Moffitt's heart seemed to stop in mid-beat as the enemy vehicle suddenly cut left, avoiding a certain fatal collision with the jeep. As soon as it did, Jack threw the three grenades he had been hording in rapid succession, scoring three hits. For good measure they made a running pass along the burning vehicle, and Jack raked it with a long burst from the sub-machinegun.

Prof. Moffitt shuddered at the sight of his son killing so coldly and efficiently with no sense of remorse. As they rejoined the other jeep, they saw that Troy and Hitch had made short work of the other two vehicles. Besides the half-track, they had also destroyed a light personnel carrier.

"A good day's work by any measure," Jack called out as they pulled up beside Troy. He jumped off, and walked up to Troy. The two men shook hands in self-congratulation; Hitch and Tully thumped each other on the arm.

"Anybody hurt?" Troy asked. His question was met by four heads shaking 'no' simultaneously. "Good." Glancing critically at Jack, he asked, "What happened?"

"The fifty jammed, that's what happened," Jack said in disgust. "I'm afraid that with the Jerries coming down our throats, I didn't have the time to clear it."

"Okay." Troy checked his watch. "I don't want to stay here and wait for any further uninvited callers. See what you can do on the go."

Jack made a wry face, but nodded. He did not like pulling maintenance on the weapon while on the move, but he understood the wisdom behind the decision. To stay here would be sheer folly.

"Sarge? Want me to change places with you?"

"You just read my mind, Private Pettigrew," Jack said with a grin. At his father's questioning look, Jack explained. "It's really quite simple, Father. I might be the gunner, but Tully's the weapons man. In addition to being a fine mechanic, our Private Pettigrew is also a qualified small arms weapons repairman."

Putting the jeep in gear, he took off after Troy's jeep. "We're lucky to have him. Tully could have a nice, soft job back in the battalion motor pool or the armory. But he's not the kind of man who likes to let others do the fighting while he sits back and turns screwdrivers."

Prof. Moffitt could not help but notice that Jack had used almost the same words regarding Tully that the private said about him last night. That reminded him that he still needed to talk to his son about the many things that been left unsaid between them. Of course, right now was not the time. But he would talk to Jack at the first opportunity, he promised himself.

To Prof. Moffitt's relief, Troy called a temporary halt three-quarters of an hour later. Almost as soon as he had pulled the jeep into a cul-de-sac, Jack joined Tully on the back of the jeep to help with the fifty-cal. He shook his head in amazement when he saw that Tully had disassembled and reassembled the heavy weapon while they had been traveling over the rough desert terrain.

"How--?" Prof. Moffitt began.

Jack gave him an amused look. "Don't ask."

"I found the problem," Tully said. He held out a small metal sliver, the firing pin. "It's bent." He pointed to the weapon's casing. "Look here," he said, indicating a small indentation. "It must've been hit while you were firing. It wasn't enough to destroy the whole thing, but enough to put it out of commission."

Jack whistled. "Better the casing than the gunner," he said with a shake of the head. Both men jumped off the back of the jeep onto the ground. "That was a bit of brilliant repair work, Tully." Jack held the firing pin between his thumb and forefinger. He shook his head in admiration as he inspected the slight bend on its otherwise straight form. "You're sure you fixed it?"

"Sarge…that's like me asking you whether you're sure from which the direction the Khamsin blows."

Before Jack could respond, Prof. Moffitt interrupted. "Tully, may I see where the weapon got hit?"

At Prof. Moffitt's not unreasonable request, Tully felt suddenly uncomfortable. He glanced at Jack and then kicked at an imaginary pebble. "I don't think that's such a good idea, Professor."

Jack gave first his father and Tully a questioning look.

"I'd like to see exactly how close my son came to being injured just now, Tully. Now, please…let me see where the weapon was struck."

By then Troy and Hitch had walked up to them to see what was going on. "Get that fifty-cal fixed yet?"

Both Tully and Jack nodded, but neither looked at him. Jack was staring at his father, while Tully was concentrating on his boots.

"Moffitt? What's going on?" Troy asked.

Jack shook his head and shrugged. "I'm not exactly sure." He glanced at Tully and then at his father. "Tully? Father?"

"You heard what I said, Jack," his father said. "I wish to see where the weapon was hit."

"I heard you, Father. What I don't understand is why?"

"Why? Because I have a right to know just how much jeopardy my son's life is in while he's out here playing 'cowboys and Indians' **_that's_** why!"

"Playing?" Jack looked stunned. "Father, is that what you think? That I'm out here on a lark? Playing games?"

"Well, aren't you? What did you call that stunt you pulled earlier? A game of Chicken, I believe you said."

"Father, it's just what we call it--it's a turn of phrase. But as you saw, it's hardly a game."

"Jack, I've told you before that Charles could get you a position on the General Staff with just one word--!"

"Oh, Father! Same song, same dance! When are you going to get it through your head that I don't want that? And you can tell Uncle Charles that he can burn the paperwork for all I care. No, better yet, let **_me_** tell him." He glared at his father, but finally his shoulders slumped, and he turned away. "You'll never understand, will you, Sir? I've **_made_** my choice. If you can't respect it, then please--just learn to **_accept_** it."

"Jack…please, son."

But it was too late. Jack had already walked off.

Troy gave Prof. Moffitt a long look of assessment. Finally, with a shake of the head, Troy walked off after Jack.

The three remaining men stood in silent tableau as a sudden gust picked up and formed a mini dust devil, which passed by spinning like a whirling dervish. They all stared at it, unwilling to say what was uppermost in their minds.

A silent message passed between Hitch and Tully. Hitch shrugged and then headed to where they had parked the jeeps. Tully stayed back with Prof. Moffitt, not speaking.

"Well, go on…**_say_** it!" Prof. Moffitt spat out. "I made a jolly mess of it!"

"I don't think I have to tell you what you already know, do I?"

"I've lost him, Tully."

"Nah…I don't think so, Professor." Tully took out a fresh matchstick and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. He shrugged. "Oh, he's fit to be tied just about now. And he's madder'an a hornet, for sure. But you haven't lost him."

Prof. Moffitt gave him a look of utter disbelief.

"Look, Professor. You know your son loves you, right?"

Prof. Moffitt nodded.

"And you love him?"

"Of course, I do."

"Then you'll have to talk to him, Professor. Only this time, you'll have to tell him what you told me last night--that you're proud of him."

Prof. Moffitt shook his head. "It's too late, Tully. He won't listen to me, and I can't say as I blame him. I pushed him away. I've lost him. It's over."

"Now, you listen to me, Professor," Tully said sharply, yanking out the matchstick he had just put in mouth and tossing it to the ground. "**_Sure _**you pushed him away; **_sure_** you said all the wrong things, but--"

"But, nothing, Tully. I appreciate what you're trying to do, but it's over. I just have to accept it." He started to walk away, but Tully grabbed him none-too-gently by the arm and pulled him back.

"I've got something say, Professor, and you're going to listen. When I'm done, you can walk away if you want. In fact, you can do whatever you want, 'cause between you'n me, I don't think you **_deserve_** to be his father."

"How **_dare_** you speak to me in that tone of voice?"

"I'll tell you how I dare," Tully said, eyes narrowed. He took a step toward the Englishman, his fists balled threateningly. "I dare because he's my friend. I dare because he's saved my life more times than I can count. I dare because it's not fair that a swell guy like the Sarge ended up stuck with such a **_selfish_** jackass for an Old Man who only thinks about what **_he_** wants and what's right for **_him_**."

Prof. Moffitt opened his mouth to protest, but before he could do so, Tully turned his back to him. Hardened shoulder muscles rippled through the thin GI blouse, communicating his anger. Thumbs hooked on his web belt, Tully began digging in the sand with his toe. Shaking his head, he turned, his expression perplexed.

"What I don't understand, Professor…what I can't seem to get real clear on is why the Sarge seems to think the sun rises and sets around you. So, I'm gonna have to tell you something that I swore I'd never repeat to another soul." He paused, catching his breath. At last his threatening, angry manner deflated and he sighed. "I haven't the right, but…well…I reckon I haven't got much choice." He looked at Prof. Moffitt. "**_You _**give me no choice."

Tully glanced over to where Troy and Jack were talking. Or rather, Jack was talking and Troy was merely nodding his head. After awhile, the roles changed--this time Troy was doing the talking, and Jack the listening. Tully saw that this mostly involved Jack shaking his head "no."

"You mentioned a letter you received from the Sarge," Tully began, "about his being taken prisoner and hurting his ankle."

As soon as Tully referred to the mysterious letter that had haunted him these past weeks, the letter that seemed to say much, but actually said little, Prof. Moffitt's ears pricked. He nodded eagerly. "Yes…yes! Tell me. What was Jack leaving out?"

Tully stared long and hard at Jack who was finally nodding at whatever Troy was saying to him, looking utterly defeated. Troy put his hand on Jack's shoulder in a rare show of emotion. Tully felt a swell of anger and resentment at the man responsible for Jack's current state of dejection.

Swallowing, he glared at Jack's father. "I bet the Sarge didn't mention the little incident with the firing squad, did he?"

Prof. Moffitt felt an icy hand grip his lower regions. "What do you mean?"

"Your son was caught behind enemy lines, spying for the Allies. He was in German uniform when he was captured, photographing their coastal installations. The Krauts had him dead to rights."

"Why are you telling me this?" Prof. Moffitt demanded. "All you're doing is confirming what I've been saying all along. He's putting his life in jeopardy unnecessarily--"

"Really? How many German-speaking commandoes do you know, Professor? And not just that, but a man who can blend into the Arab community with just as much ease in order to escape his German pursuers."

"But it didn't work that time, did it? He wasn't able to 'blend into the Arab community' as you say."

"No…not that time. But those are the breaks, Professor. It's war, y'know? We try to sneak into their compounds to do whatever it takes to win. Not surprisingly, they try to stop us from doing our job, and, yes, sometimes they manage to catch us. Other times, they manage to kill or wound some of us."

As Tully spoke his eyes took on a distant look, as if he were somewhere else.

"Even if someone else could've gone in his place, Professor, what would've been their chances of surviving? Your son survives because he's damned good at it. He's one of the best, in fact. Working behind the enemy lines is never easy, Professor, even when you have all the skills the Sarge has. It takes a special kind of man to do what he does, to stay cool and focused when facing possible capture, and knowing that if captured, you could be shot or tortured or both."

"Good Heavens, man! How can you expect me to accept such a possible fate for my son? My **_child_**?"

"Because he's no **_longer_** a child!" Tully snapped, glaring at him. "You know, Professor, my Pa always says that if folks would only take the time to learn from the Mama bird, then they wouldn't have such a conniption when their youngsters grew up. A Mama bird will push her baby birds out of the nest when they're ready to fly. Once they can make it on their own, she abandons the nest, and her baby birds are forced to grow up and fend for themselves. But people…well, they're a whole 'nother story. Instead of letting their baby birds fly out of the nest, they do everything in their power to chain 'em to the nest and keep 'em from flying on their own."

He shook his head sadly. "But even the strongest men have a breaking point. The Sarge there came within a heartbeat of being killed by that firing squad. Like you, he had given up. He'd lost all hope. And that's when we showed up. We didn't rescue him at that moment, but we did save him from being executed. After we got him back, it took him awhile to get his head straight again, and for the nightmares to stop, but he did come back--because he believed in himself, and he knew that **_we_** believed in him. He knew we wouldn't quit on him; more importantly, he knew we wouldn't let him quit on himself."

"That's what I did, isn't it?" Prof. Moffitt asked. "I quit on him."

"I think you're the only one who can answer that, Professor." Having said his piece, Tully headed toward the jeeps and joined Hitch who was already under the hood of his own jeep. As Tully approached, he raised a single eyebrow in silent query. Tully shrugged. Without need to exchange words the two jeep drivers turned their undivided attention to checking their respective engines.

Prof. Moffitt meanwhile was left to his own devices, or rather, his conscience. His harsh words to his son resounded in his ears. "'I am Fortune's Fool,'" he whispered. How could he have said those things to Jack? Why is it that he could not seem to find the right words to say to his own son? What was wrong with him? Was he a selfish jackass who only thought of his own needs as Tully had said? On the other hand, was it so wrong to want what was best for one's child?

_Only Jack is no longer your child_, a small voice said. _He's his own man_.

He looked out at the trackless desert and sighed. When had it happened? When had his little boy grown up and grown away from him?

He spotted a figure crouched on a sand dune, maintaining a low profile. He was holding up a pair of binoculars and scanning the far horizons. Jack. He marveled at his son's ability to set aside his personal emotions and get down to business.

_When had he grown up?_ The voice asked, repeating his question. _Two years ago, when he enlisted in the ranks despite all your protests against it._

Making up his mind, Prof. Moffitt started toward his son, when Jack suddenly waved an urgent signal to the others below. Not waiting for acknowledgement he ran back down, sliding on his backside as his heels dug awkwardly in the soft sand. At the same time, the others hurried about their standard routine: Tully and Hitch slammed the jeep hoods shut, while Troy vaulted on the back and quickly ran his fifty-cal through its pre-firing checks.

As Jack came bounding by his father, he grabbed the older man by the arm and urged him to hurry. "They can't be more than thirty minutes out."

Prof. Moffitt did not have to be told of whom his son was speaking. He ran as fast as he could, but Jack still had to practically drag and push him onward. By the time they got to their jeep, Tully had the motor running, and Troy waited with his weapon aimed in the direction the still invisible enemy would approach.

Prof. Moffitt had barely taken his seat, when the jeep jumped forward, slamming him backward in his seat. He looked back, worried that Jack might have been thrown, but it was needless worry. Jack had pulled his goggles down, donned a pair of leather work-gloves, and was methodically running his own pre-fire checks. Aiming at an invisible point, he dry-fired the weapon, testing its handling. Satisfied, he tapped Tully on the helmet and gave him a thumb's up. Tully responded with a V-for-Victory sign.

To the professor's surprise the Patrol chose not to engage the advancing enemy; instead, they headed out of the area at a high rate of speed. By the time the enemy vehicles came upon their temporary camp, all that would remain would be whatever the sands had not had time to conceal.

When an hour had passed, Jack signaled the other jeep, circling his arm overhead and then pointing at the base of a ridgeline that they were approaching. Troy nodded and as one the two jeeps headed in direction of the chain of low hills. When they reached the base, Troy and Jack hopped off their respective jeeps and talked in low tones. Troy waved Jack's father over.

"We need to see your map again. Moffitt, how about getting yours out so's we can run a comparison?"

Jack nodded. Without glancing at his father, he reached under the passenger seat and pulled out his map case. Taking out his map, he laid it side by side with his father's and compared the detail.

"According to Father's map, the second possible site is located along here--" He ran his finger on an east-west direction along the ridgeline. He checked his own map. "Look…about one kilometer due east of here is a narrow trail that leads to the top of the ridge--"

"What? Let me see that…" Prof. Moffitt leaned over Jack's map and carefully studied the features indicated. "Jack…how do you know this? Have you scouted this area before?"

Jack nodded but did not explain.

"Well, out with it! When?"

"About ten years ago," Jack explained. "The summer before I left for Cambridge. Remember my friend Ravi?"

His father nodded.

"His Bedouin tribe was camped about ten kilometers south of here. We knew that this would be our last summer together for a long time. You'll remember we were as close as brothers. We made a trek up here. You had just left for Cairo, I believe to make arrangements for your latest dig. You gave me permission to stay with Ravi's tribe that one time. His father allowed us to take two of his finest Arabian horses, while his mother and sisters packed us enough food to last us a week, instead of just an overnight stay. We came here and camped overnight. That night we performed a ritual that I knew you would have disapproved of, so I never told you."

Jack pulled up his sleeve and showed an old scar about three inches long that ran down the length of his right forearm.

"We became blood brothers that night and swore eternal fidelity." Jack shrugged, looking embarrassed. "I suppose it seems rather silly and juvenile now, but at the time it was very important. It was something we both felt we had to do. And the 'eternal fidelity' has so far withstood the test of time. Ravi is now tribal chief, and when I last visited, I was treated as an honored brother and member of the family. Did you know that I am now a proud uncle to five nephews and six nieces?"

Prof. Moffitt looked stunned. That his son had secretly participated in such a sacred and dangerous ritual when he was barely sixteen had momentarily left him speechless. What was more, this showed him that Jack had been taking matters into his own hands for far longer than he had even been aware of. His son had known that he would never have allowed him to participate in a blood ceremony, but he had done so nevertheless. The same with his enlistment.

What had Tully said yesterday? Had it only been a day? He had said that Jack willingly obeyed Troy's orders unless they stood in the way of what he felt he should do. Therefore, he had risked court martial by going directly against orders to save him.

Knowing that the others were waiting for him to say something, Prof. Moffitt nodded slowly. "Very well. Let's take a look at this trail, why don't we? See if it's wide enough for a jeep. Remember, the Roman road has to be accessible by your larger supply vehicles. If the trail leading up to it is too narrow, then even if the road exists it will be useless to us.

"Not necessarily, Professor," Troy said. "New routes are always useful; whether or not they're used as originally intended is beside the point."

"Not to mention that C-four cuts a pretty mean path when you set it right," Hitch offered. "And who better than Sergeant Moffitt here to show the engineers exactly where they should place their charges in order to widen the trail?"

"That's very kind of you to say so, Hitch," Jack said with a touch of irony. "But perhaps we'd best lay off the accolades until we find the bloody road?"

The other three members of the Rat Patrol grinned.

"Okay, Moffitt, this is your show," Troy said. "Take the lead."

* * *

Four hours later, Prof. Moffitt succeeded in accomplishing his mission. With his son following the same trail that he had blazed as a boy, Prof. Moffitt discovered the two thousand year old road. The Allies would now have a new supply route once the engineers widened the trail that led up to it as Hitch had suggested.

Jack stood back, smiling proudly. "Jolly good show, Father. I knew you could do it."

"Thanks to you, my dear boy. Only thanks to you."

At this point father and son ran out of words to say. Prof. Moffitt felt suddenly awkward; the words he wanted to say were stuck in his throat, refusing to come out.

Looking just as awkward, Jack gave him an uncertain nod and started toward the jeeps where Tully and Hitch were again checking under the hoods. Troy was on the radio, sending acknowledgement of the discovery and the coordinates. He was also calling for an air pickup. Prof. Moffitt would need to be flown back.

The Rat Patrol had had to interrupt its extended patrol in order to assist him on his mission. Now that their role was done, they had to return to their regular duties. Or as Tully had described it: a routine patrol punctuated with the destruction of any enemy convoys that happened to wander into their path, not to mention any juicy targets of opportunity that they 'accidentally' stumbled across.

Prof. Moffitt knew that time was running out if he wished to talk to his son before the plane arrived. Once he was wheels-up and in the air, his last chance to make amends would be lost. This was his moment, his 'juicy target of opportunity' so to speak. If he did not talk to his son now, if he left North Africa without making right what was wrong between, then he would lose his son for good. It was now or never. He opened his mouth to call his son but was interrupted.

"Moffitt!" Troy called. Jack looked up. Troy waved him over. They held a brief conference over the map, discussing the best and safest place for a temporary airfield.

"Tully and I should go scout it," Jack offered. "I don't like the idea of telling a pilot he can land somewhere without having checked it out carefully. I'd hate to have it turn out to be chock-full of boulders and dangerous holes."

"I agree," Troy said. "But Hitch and I'll go. You stay here with your Dad. Make the most of what little time you have left."

"But--"

"No buts! Hitch, let's shake it!" Troy turned, and climbing into the passenger side, gave Jack one of his blinding grins. "We won't be long."

Jack stood and watched their departure long after the dust had settled. _Make most of what little time you have left_. Troy's words echoed in his mind. "Troy doesn't know it, but time has already run out," Jack said softly. "It ran out years ago."

"Did it, Jack?"

Jack whirled at the sound of his father's voice. Prof. Moffitt had walked up so quietly that Jack was not even aware of his presence until he had spoken. Jack took a deep, calming breath and paused momentarily to bring his heart rate back to normal.

"Father." Jack spoke with cool, matter-of-factness.

"You didn't answer my question, Jack."

"What question is that, Father?"

"**_Has_** time run out for us?"

Jack stared coolly at his father, and then looked away. "I think you already know the answer to that, Father." He started to walk away, but his father grabbed him by the arm.

"Do I, Jack? Do **_you_**?" As he spoke, Prof. Moffitt gripped his son by both arms, forcing him to face him. "Jack…**_do_** you?" He looked intently into his son's eyes, so like his mother's own he realized, sensitive and kind, but hard as nails when necessary. However, there was something else as well, a need to belong, to be accepted.

Prof. Moffitt saw it with his son's interactions with the other men. He belonged here. He was accepted, and the knowledge made Jack all the more determined to contribute to their mission's success by making practical use of his many skills and gifts. They knew that they could depend on him and he on them.

"Father, must we have this conversation?" Jack asked. "You've made your position crystal clear. Many times."

"As you have," Prof. Moffitt said quietly.

Jack nodded.

"Only I never listened, did I?"

Jack gave him a look of bewilderment. "What did you say?"

"I said that I've been a selfish jackass, son--"

"A what?" Jack asked surprised. "Father--"

"Jack, listen to me. I'll be going soon, and I have no idea when or if we'll ever see each other again. I have to say what's on my mind without interruption, or I'll most likely lose my nerve. So here goes…" He paused long enough to see that he had his son's undivided attention. "Jack, I was wrong to oppose your decision to enlist. I was wrong to keep insisting that you should accept a commission. I've been wrong about so many things in so many fronts that I don't think we have the time for me to list them all. But there is one particular point that I do need to mention."

He looked down at his hands and saw to his surprise that they were not shaking. How that was possible when his stomach was turning cartwheels, he did not know.

"Jack, I want you to know how much I love you and how proud I am of you. I'm proud of the man that you've become, and I'm proud of what you're doing out here. You were right, son. You **_would _**be wasted sitting on some general's staff, sticking pins into maps while other men did the fighting."

"I never said that."

"You didn't? Oh, I must've read it somewhere."

"Father, did you mean what you said? You really feel that way? You're not just saying it, are you?"

Prof. Moffitt nodded. "Jack, I'm very proud of you. And I've been acting like a spoiled child who can't get his way. Can you ever forgive me?"

"Father, there's nothing to forgive," Jack said. "I've always known you loved me…I was just afraid that you were terribly ashamed of me. I know I haven't exactly been on my best behavior, either. I was very rude to you earlier." He looked down in shame. "I was raised to honor my father and always treat him with respect…I'm sorry I spoke to you so shamefully."

"Respect and honor goes both ways, Jack. I don't blame you for losing your temper. You had every right to do so. It's difficult for one to give honor and respect when it isn't being returned in kind. My behavior towards you has been abominable. But I promise that it will get better. Starting today…starting now!"

Prof. Moffitt placed his hand on his son's shoulder. "I know now that I can't live your life for you. You're a grown man and you must do what is right for you. I respect your choice, and I accept it. Besides, who am I to say that my son deserves to be assigned to a safe rear echelon job, at the price of another man's son who must face death in his place?"

Jack smiled. "It's hardly cricket, is it?"

"No, it's not." Prof. Moffitt gazed lovingly at his son. "I suppose I'd be wasting my breath if I asked you to be careful?"

"Father, I've told you before…I'm **_always_** careful."

"All right. Will you at least agree not to play 'Chicken' any more?"

Jack stared at him without speaking, a smile of amusement playing on his lips.

"Not quite as often, perhaps?" Prof. Moffitt asked, knowing it was useless. He shook his head. "I didn't think so." Smiling, Prof. Moffitt said, "If I ask that you try to be more open and honest with me in your letters, will you at least try?"

After a moment Jack nodded. "I promise to try, Father, but I can't promise to tell you everything. Will that be all right?"

"It's a start."

Hidden under the hood of the jeep, Tully overheard the father/son conversation. Satisfied that they had made serious inroads, he smiled. Returning to the job at hand, he pulled out the dipstick and checked the oil.

_

* * *

May 1942_

_Dear Jack,_

_What an exciting adventure we had together. Of course, we mustn't ever tell your mother; you know how she worries. As for me, I know that I have never been so glad to see anyone in my life as the moment you walked in the door of my prison. I cannot tell you how proud I am of you. I remember when the roles would have been reversed--me giving the orders, you following them. _

_To quote Wordsworth, "the Child is father of the Man," and I cannot be more pleased._

_You asked me that day if I were worried, to which I quickly replied, "Who me, worry?"_

_To be truthful, Son, I had just about given up on any hope of escape. I figured that you had seen the plane go down, and not having any reason to suspect that I'd escaped, you would have assumed that I'd been killed. I might have known that you, whose sheer tenacity would put an English terrier to shame, would never let a mystery go unsolved. Or at least you would never rest until you knew whether or not I was dead._

_For that I am both blessed and thankful._

_I must say that I was most impressed with how easily you threw those lids from the rubbish bins at the Germans. It reminded me of the endless afternoons you spent as a boy trying to master throwing the discus. Although you had no intention of participating in any of your school's field teams, you nevertheless persevered, until at last, you succeeded in throwing it a respectable distance. _

_And now you spend your days and nights patrolling the desert sands of your boyhood with men who are truly fit to be your friends. Sgt. Troy, Pvt. Hitchcock, and Pvt. Pettigrew are men of honor through and through, but more importantly, they are true and loyal friends. _

_I had a long and interesting conversation with Tully. You are lucky, Jack, to have such a friend as he, someone to stand up for you against a selfish jackass such as I, and to watch your back while in enemy territory. Give him my thanks for looking out for you._

_From what I found out about Troy, he was none too keen on letting you go off on a wild goose chase to find me. He even ordered you to remain put. Yet, even though you disobeyed him, he and the others went looking for you, thankfully arriving in the proverbial nick of time. _

_As I recall, I believe you were running low on "ammunition"--the lids--by then._

_Later, as I held your eyes in silent adieu, I can't tell you how my heart swelled seeing you, a grown man, climb into your jeep as you prepared to shove off. This must have been how fathers hundreds of years ago felt as they watched their eldest sons mount their war steeds and head out to fight in the Crusades. _

_Today, you and your friends in your motorized steeds are likewise participants in our modern Crusade. Only this time we don't fight to rid the Holy Land of the Muslim infidel, but rather to rid the world of the unholy yoke of Nazism. I pray each day, my boy, that when this war finally comes to its inevitable conclusion, you will return home to us, and we shall be a family again._

_I know that I don't say this enough, Jack, but know that you are always in my heart. I love you, my son, and I give you my blessing._

_And always know this, Jack. I am proud that you are my son and honored that I am your father._

_Love always,_

_Father_

* * *

As he closed the letter to his son, Elizabeth, his wife, walked in. She approached him from behind and put her arms around his shoulders and neck. Leaning down, she hugged him closely and kissed him on the cheek.

"Is that your letter to Jack?" she asked.

"Yep…signed, sealed, and about to be delivered."

Elizabeth walked around until she was facing him. She crouched down by his knees, and taking his hand in hers, she looked up worriedly.

"John…how is Jack, really? How is our boy doing?"

"My dear…I'm afraid Jack is no longer our little boy. Sometime while we weren't watching, he grew up and became a man."

He leaned down and pecked her affectionately on the nose. Cupping her face gently in his hand, he gazed into her beautiful hazel eyes, Jack's eyes. He saw the same sensitivity and kindness that he had observed in his son's. More importantly, he saw the same underlying layer of steel that was the hallmark of Jack's strength.

Taking her in his arms, Prof. Moffitt held his wife close to him.

"I'm proud to report that our son is doing just fine."

The End


End file.
